


Swing the Shutters Shut

by LegendaryBard



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Penetrative Sex, Somnophilia, Vitophilia, Voyeurism, fear fetish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2020-04-07 12:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19085047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: Short NSFW one-shots (hopefully one-shots, anyway) for various Batman pairings.





	1. Scarecrow/Mad Hatter - Somnophilia/Fear Fetish

Crane walked into the darkened bedroom.

It was pitch-black inside the little room, but Crane had lived here long enough to know where everything was; he skirted around a chair, and moved silently towards the bed.

It had been a long, unpleasant day, and he was looking forward to a chance to sleep. The only difficulty facing him  _now_ was laying down and getting some rest without waking Jervis— who had retired to bed some time ago. 

A sound made Crane pause on his way to the bed. A whimper, filtered through Jervis’s teeth; then the soft shuffling of the bedding. 

For a moment, Crane thought he had caught the man by surprise in an intimate moment, and considered simply turning around and coming back later; it was when there was silence- and no acknowledgement of Crane’s presence- that he realized the man was still asleep. 

Jervis’s head shifted on the pillow, and there was the telltale jerk of sleep-paralyzed movement underneath the covers. Crane’s mind put all the pieces together: 

_ Nightmare. _

He ought to wake Jervis. He really should. There was no reason to let him suffer through bad dreams when Crane could be waking him—

But it was only a harmless little  _ dream,  _ after all.

Crane stood there for a moment, deliberating over a mostly silent Jervis. His neurons were throbbing with interest, piqued by the idea of Jervis’s  _ fear;  _ somewhere, in the worst part of Crane’s mind, he wanted to  _ amplify  _ it with a little fear toxin… the hatter’s tiny whimpers and restrained twitches were disappointingly small in comparison to the dopamine-deluge of a properly toxined subject.

But everyone had to…  _ appreciate  _ the smaller things. The subtler things. An independent art film with a shoestring budget could be better than an opulent Hollywood CGI-fest; should the simple beauty of the common nightmare not also be admired?

Crane’s eyes gradually adjusted to the dark; revealing the outline of Jervis’s body through the slats of moonlight coming in through the blinds. He had a sickly white pallor, and Crane thought he could spy a light sheen of sweat. His eyes flickered wildly underneath his eyelids, rolling in REM.

Crane was at half-mast already. 

He started at the realization; eyes flickering down to confirm the traitorous bulge was making its interest known. 

What a…  _ disturbing, inconvenient  _ thing. Crane had always known he did, perhaps, derive more pleasure from fear than he ought- maybe enough to make the accusations of “fear-fetishist” not ring entirely false- but this was…  _ heinous. _

This was Jervis Tetch— he was no common citizen, he wasn’t  _ Batman  _ or his helpers—! He was a friend, a  _ partner—  _

And yet, when the hatter’s face scrunched slightly and a whimpery sound left him, Crane’s cock twitched in interest. 

A short, internal battle took place; a tiny courtroom prosecuting him for the crime of getting off to Jervis’s nightmare, with a lone defendant arguing that this was accepted  _ and  _ expected, and besides, who  _ cared  _ what he did so long as he wasn’t hurting anyone? Crane had never cared much for being restrained by flimsy things like  _ taboos  _ and  _ societal expectations.  _

He would wake Jervis up after; it wasn’t hurting Jervis any to wait, not really. And, could he  _ really  _ wake the poor Hatter up with a visible erection? Of course not.

Now that he had made the final deliberation, speed was of the utmost importance; he didn’t want Jervis to wake up, or have the dream be over before Crane finished. 

It took him less than thirty seconds to quietly scrounge up some lubricant, pound it into his palm, and pull his cock out of his trousers. 

Crane watched Jervis, rigidly; as soon as a mumbling moan was coaxed from the hatter by his nightmares, Crane began a loose-fisted pumping of his cock. There was no ceremony or sophistication to it; he sagged, slightly, leaning into his own touch, and shamelessly jerked off to the sight of Tetch’s sweating, pale face and the shake of his limbs as he was tossed about by his night terrors.

It took a few minutes. A few minutes of muffled swearing, leaning up against the bed for support, and the obscene slide of his jellied hand running over his dick, all seeming gunshot-loud in the tense darkness. He, too, began to sweat; a hot, feverish burn as his mind ran wild with fantasies of Jervis’s terrified face and frightened, muffled exclamations. 

He bit down on his knuckle with a shameful yelp and came into his fist; after the aftershocks of orgasm had left him, Crane wobbled towards the nightstand to take a fistful of tissues. Clean-up was quick, and, he decided, be  _ shameless.  _ Jervis was too proper to inquire about the nature of damp tissues in the bin.

Once he was satisfied with the clean-up job, he tucked his cock away, and turned back to the sleeping Hatter.

Crane shook him, none too gently, and called: “Jervis.  _ Jervis!”  _ _   
_

Jervis sat up quickly, one hand clapping over his mouth and the other fisting in the sheets; a muffled swear left him, and he quickly shot his frightened gaze to Crane, who stood over him as innocently as the situation allowed.

“... Jonathan?” 

Oh  _ no,  _ he sounded like he was about to start crying. Guilt knotted Crane’s stomach; the tiny defendant in his head seemed to have opted to rest. 

“I’m here, Jervis,” Crane assured him, placing a knee down on the mattress and, tentatively, reaching his arms out to offer an awkward embrace. “It looked like you were having a nightmare…”

 


	2. Killer Moth/Firefly - Handjobs/Frottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drury has a problem with his damn, sexy roommate.

Drury Walker shut the door behind himself, and very nervously walked into the room.

There was lots of pastels, he noticed. Pinks and blues and whites. Like cotton candy. 

The decor was all nice— a couch, a coffee table, an armchair, bookshelves, some posters, and a few strewn boxes full of playing cards, seltzer, gag vomit, and other clowny stuff. Solid gold comedy and tragedy masks had been placed over the mantle, a rubber chicken had been mounted, and a table in a corner with a sewing machine was strewn with scraps of brightly colored fabric, threads, and little silver bells. A hanging plant’s vines dangled over the rim of its pot, suspended from the ceiling. 

Perfume permeated the air, alongside a strong aroma of dog,  and the overwhelming scent of the master of the house: Harleen Quinzel. 

The lady herself was leading Drury in, and gently directed him to sit in a cozy-looking pink armchair. She took a seat on the couch, placing the coffee table as a buffer between them. There was a mug on the table, full of what  _ looked _ like six inches of whipped cream, and a brown hunchbacked creature on the couch that Drury identified as the source of the ‘dog smell’. 

Drury sat on the armchair’s matching Ottoman. He couldn’t really do backed chairs very well, considering his wings and all.

“You want anythin’ to drink before we start, Drury?” Harley was happy to have him here, at least. That was a small victory in its own right, even if it may have been just because it was a chance for her to dish out relationship advice. 

“Oh, if it wouldn’t be too much,” Drury told her, meekly. Harley nodded. 

“We got water an’ soda, an’ I think Red might’a left some wine—” 

“Can you, uh, get a glass of water, and put two teaspoons of sugar in it?” Drury asked.

He  _ liked  _ sugar water. The sort of…  _ nectary  _ taste made his brain happy. 

Harley squinted at him- as if trying to decide if he was making a joke- then stood up and meandered into another room. The sound of clattering dishes, opening cabinets, and running water told him his request had been obeyed. She came back a minute later with a glass of water, and handed it to him. 

She dropped back down onto the couch to lounge. Here, on her baby blue couch, beside her sleepy dog-thing, surrounded by equipment for clownery, she looked to be at such  _ ease.  _ She definitely didn’t have the same tension she carried in Arkham, or the same sad desperation from back when she was the Joker’s main squeeze. 

“So,” Harley began, “You got boy trouble.” 

Mournfully, Drury nodded. He tried the sugar water. It was good. She had definitely put in more than two teaspoons. 

“What’s exactly wrong here? It’s with Garfield, innit?” Harley probed.

Once again, Drury nodded. “He’s  _ not  _ taking my hints that I want to take it a step further, but I don’t wanna just—  _ ask  _ him to bork! It’d be super awkward if he’s not ready—” 

“Slow down, cowboy,” Harley advised. She reached for her mug, and there must have been more than just whipped cream in it, because she took a good long slurp before saying: “What kinda hints are you droppin’? Because I know some really dense fellas out there. I once made a giant freakin’ custard pie and hid in it and Mr. J still didn’t get the damn idea when I told him to  _ try my pie—  _ and, ooh, don’t even freakin’ get me  _ started  _ on Red—” 

“I was all but telling him to bone me,” Drury complained. “I  _ was.  _ I  _ really  _ was, y’know. I was pumping out pheromones, but he wasn’t receptive at a—” 

“You were pumping out  _ what,  _ hon?” Harley‘s hand meandered to idly pat the big furry lump on the couch. It stirred, stretching its skinny brown legs nearly straight up in the air and unceremoniously flopping them back down. 

“Pheromones,” Drury said. “Y’know, it’s getting warmer, so I’m getting urges. You know how it is.” 

Harley was giving him a Look, like he was saying something wrong. His palms began to sweat. Or maybe that was just condensation from the glass.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harley said. “Are we talkin’  _ metaphorical  _ stuff, here, because—” 

“No,” Drury interrupted, wounded. “Pheromones. You know, from your gland.” He indicated his stomach, helpfully. 

“...Hon, I don’t think normal people have a pheromone gland,” Harley said, gently.

Drury thought about that for a moment. 

“Oh, I think you’re right,” Drury said. “And he’s only got a human nose, too, so I guess he couldn’t smell it anyway.” 

Harley gave a slow nod. Drury couldn’t quite pin down what, exactly, her expression was supposed to be. 

“Okay, so I think you guys are having a little miscommunication,” Harley finally said, making a slight motion with her mug. “You gotta stop doing weird moth stuff and have a real convo with him. Like, here, Red an’ I, the first night  _ we  _ did it, we went out for steak an’ wine at a real high-class kind’a place— an’ then we went back to her apartment and we had a nice talk about what we wanted out of our relationship—” 

“I’m not even sure Garfield thinks of us like that,” Drury scuffed at his knee, despondently. “I mean, we’re more than bros, but— I don’t even think we’re, like, boyfriends. I don’t know if I even  _ want _ to be boyfriends.” 

“But’cha still wanna sex him?” Harley checked. 

“Yeah,” Drury admitted. 

“I think the only way around it is to talk to him,” Harley started to sit up straight, and the hunchbacked pup on the couch finally rose, only to place its head on her thigh and go right back to snoozing. “Communication is key, y’know. Besides, Garfield’s not a bad guy. Even if he lets ya down, he’ll do it gently.” 

Drury shrugged, helplessly, and sipped at his sugar water. “I mean, it’s not gonna break my heart if he says no. I’m not unhappy with what we have now.” 

Harley scratched her weird dog under the chin thoughtfully. “That’s good, hon. Very mature an’ attractive of you—  _ trust _ me when I say insecurity is a total turn-off.” 

Drury tried not to sheepishly smile, but he couldn’t help it. “That’s nice of you to say, Harley.” 

“I only wish Mr J had been so accepting of me lettin’ him down,” Harley sighed to herself, and Drury felt a  _ very  _ sudden need to not be here. Everyone knew Harley and Joker had a very ugly split, and Drury was afraid for his life whenever it was brought up by either of them. “You should’a  _ heard  _ him, Drury— He was yelling like you wouldn’t  _ believe!”  _

“Uh-huh,” he sipped, nervously. 

“Oh, but I guess you probably don’t wanna think of that loser, huh?” Harley correctly interpreted. “Yeah, me neither. Jerk.” 

The questionably authentic dog made a little wuffling sound, and Harley scratched it behind the ears. “Anyway. I think maybe, if ya wouldn’t mind, we should go ova any  _ anxieties _ you have regardin’ your relationship with Garfield— I didn’t get my psychiatry degree for nothin’, after all.” Something seemed to have occurred to her, and she brightened. “And, ooh, while I’m at it, Professor Crane asked me to record when you were talkin’ about your fears.”

“I’d rather not?” Drury told her, timidly. 

“Oh, shoot. Well, I’ll just tell him you talked about mushy stuff. He hates that kind’a thing.” 

Drury took a good gulp of his sugar water and sincerely hoped that talking it through with Harley would help.

=

Drury got back to his and Garfield’s shared apartment an hour later.

Harley’s message had been clear: you have to  _ ask  _ for what you want, no matter how much it pained you. So, he was gonna buck up and ask.

“Hey, bro,” Garfield called from the couch. He was lounging underneath his ugly patchwork blanket, holding onto his phone. A bowl of half-eaten popcorn sat next to him on the floor, with a few kernels spilled onto the carpet; Garfield was probably still watching the Fortnite machinima that he’d been engrossed in when Drury left. “Where’d you go?”

“I needed to give Harley that thing back that I took from her,” Drury lied, badly. “So, hey, I gotta talk to you, man.”

Drury knew that his hypersensitive sense of smell was uncomfortable in polite society. He  _ knew _ it was invasive and even, to some people,  _ gross,  _ and had long-since honed his ability to ignore and bury anything that was inappropriate. But his antennae tasted the air, and Drury’s brain processed a few things: 

_ Popcorn, food, tasty. _

_ Nest, good, safety. _

_ Garfield, strong, healthy.  _

Drury, from scent alone, could tell you the last time Garfield had rubbed one out, the last time he’d eaten, and where he had been in the past half hour (bathroom; Drury could smell toilet paper— among other things) and he could definitely, a hundred percent, tell you that Garfield was a fertile, healthy male of good stock and adequate breeding age. 

His stomach gland started producing pheromones without his say-so, but that was okay, because Garfield couldn’t friggin’ smell it anyway. Drury wondered what it was like, going around without the ability to scent something and know everything about it—

“Yeah, bro? What’cha want?” Garfield prompted. He paused the video and slowly reached for some popcorn. 

They had a comfy stool that Drury liked to sit on- it was  _ his  _ stool, really, Garfield didn’t sit on it all that much- and Drury slowly walked over to it and sat. 

“So, like… we’ve been roommates for two years,” Drury said.

“Yeah. Almost three.” Garfield added, helpfully.

“And we’re bros.”

“I would legit die for you,” Garfield told him, seriously. Drury believed him. 

“So… I was wondering if maybe we could go a step  _ beyond  _ bros.”

“... What d’you mean?” Garfield turned his phone off and put it away, and Drury’s stomach flipped, because that meant Garfield thought this was gonna be a real big thing that needed his full attention and was gonna take a while. 

“I don’t know how to say it,” Drury admitted, “But, I mean, it’s getting hot outside.”

Garfield tilted his head.

“I mean— Okay. What I  _ mean  _ is that— I’m starting to feel things. Like, things I didn’t feel before. And its getting worse because it’s spring.”

“... Allergies?” Garfield tried, valiantly. 

“No-o. Okay, lemme just put it like this: mating season for moths starts in March, and it’s March—”

Garfield’s eyes lit up in sudden realization.  _ “Ohhhh.  _ You’re sayin’ you’re horny.” 

“Yes,” Drury blurted, desperately. “For you, though, specifically.”

Garfield, his dear roommate and not-boyfriend, stared at him for a second with a critical eye. 

“Yeah, okay,” Garfield said. “I dunno. I could bone right now. I’m not doin’ anything else.”

“Oh,  _ sweet,  _ seriously?”

“I mean, yeah, why not, bro? Lemme just, like…” He threw the covers over the back of his couch, and shuffled out of his boxers, which he left on the floor. “There.”

Drury unbuttoned the back of his shirt, and peeled it off (his wings meant he had to custom-make a lot of his shirts, but it was alright, because he liked sewing and clothes-mending) and stripped out of his pants and underwear, leaving them where they lay. 

“Whoa, dude. Where is it?” Garfield asked, curiously.

A little rude, but it didn’t come out of malice, Drury knew. His crotch looked like a whole lotta white, downy fur, with no peen or puss in sight. 

“It’s under there,” Drury assured. 

“What’d it look like if you shaved?” Garfield wondered aloud, as Drury moved over to him. “Oh, dude, grab the lotion. There’s some in—”

“Your room, yeah, I know where it is,” Drury told him. He mighta borrowed it a couple times when he ran out of his own jerk-off fluid. “Should I grab some Kleenex too, or—”

“Yeah.” Garfield had not yet completely moved on from Drury’s hairy nethers just yet. “Dude, it’s all over your junk, doesn’t it get all wet when you p—”

Drury came back with the aforementioned bottle, and set it triumphantly on the arm of the couch. He sat down, and the two of them settled on the cushions, facing one another, naked. 

“Okay, so, I’m just saying that I don’t know how to do ass stuff,” Drury told him. “Like, I don’t want to hurt you on accident or anything— or  _ get  _ hurt, I guess—”

“That’s cool,” Garfield assured. “I was just gonna jerk you off.” He made the appropriate hand gesture.

“That’s fine,” Drury said, honestly. At this point, he wasn’t trying to satisfy mating urges— this was his  _ own  _ thing.  _ He _ wanted to have sex with Garfield, not his penis. “I’ll take whatever I can get, bro.”

Both of them had unique, not entirely appealing, bodies. Almost the entirety of Garfield’s skin was coated with thick, reddish-brown scarring, leathery and tough, split and cracked and blistered by damage so many years ago. He was completely hairless- everything from eyebrows to pubic hair was simply gone- and his cock was sorta burnt-ish, though not quite as bad as the rest of him. Drury likened it to an overcooked hot dog- like the kind that exploded in the microwave because you didn’t poke holes in them- and he thought about telling Garfield that, but he thought that it’d probably be rude the same way the “whoa, where is it?” comment was. 

Garfield had a hard time realizing when stuff was touching him, because the scarring over his body was tough and calloused and didn’t have properly working nerves anymore; Drury nervously wondered if his cock was the same way, even if it looked as though it’d escaped the worst of the flames. 

Drury, himself, had a thick dusting of fur over the majority of his body, and admittedly, his gross mouth-bits and moth-eyes were probably not the nicest to look at. Plus, he had feelers and wings, and to most people, that probably crossed too close into  _ monster  _ territory. 

Drury delved his hand into the furry fluff of his genitals; he was ready for the touch, so there was hardly so much as a twitch as he grasped it, pumping it a few times to try to coax it to hardness. 

It looked…  _ mostly  _ human, from what Drury had seen when he compared it to other dicks online. But Garfield’s own member looked only  _ mostly human,  _ so that really shouldn’t be a bother.

At a half-chub, Garfield made a delighted sound, as if spotting a dog from across the street. “Oh, there it is.” 

Drury nodded, biting his lip. He shifted closer to Garfield, and Garfield moved forward in turn— they had to sort of awkwardly arrange their legs, but they ended up roughly thigh-to-thigh, hunching up their backs. 

Drury reached for Garfield’s soft cock, antennae pricked curiously; when he touched, Garfield made a little noise. When Drury gently rubbed, Garfield made a slightly  _ louder  _ noise.

“Hey, bro—” Drury hesitated. “I don’t wanna go too hard or too soft. Can you feel that okay?”

“My dick’s only a little worse than normal skin,” Garfield told him. “So, like, go gentler than you think, okay? I’ll tell you when you gotta get rougher.”

Drury nodded. He reached backward for the lotion, and Garfield made the intrepid step to touch the killer moth’s cock. 

Drury made a loud sound out through his nose.

“Bro, it’s so smooth,” Garfield marveled, tracing it with a burnt fingertip. “Is that, like, actual skin?” 

Drury had no idea. He made a sort of squirmy half-shrug, pumped some lotion into his palms, and liberally rubbed them together. 

Garfield took the bottle from him, slicked his hands, and began to stroke Drury’s shaft. It slowly hardened to its full thickness— longer,  _ thinner,  _ than the average man. Garfield was nearly the opposite— his blistered cock was fat, and of slightly below average length, even when fully aroused. But that was okay— both of them were privately relieved the other didn’t have a monster-sized schlong.

Drury was trying really hard to not make embarrassing noises while Garfield tugged at his cock, but it felt  _ really _ good. Garfield’s hands, sort of over-lubricated, but still rough and textured from all the scars, were very different from Drury’s own hands- which were softer, less muscular, thinner- and it was…  _ unlike anything he’d ever had before.  _

Drury was trying to give as good as he got, though— pumping gently, paying special attention to the tip, sort of alternating between slow and fast; Garfield seemed to be enjoying it, if his intrigued grunts and whines were any indication. 

“Hey,” Garfield panted, eventually. “Bro, I got an idea.” 

“What is it, dude?” Drury puffed. 

Garfield began shifting closer— Drury, sensing where this was going, moved forward too. The handjobs were put on hold during the maneuvering, and once they settled, they were very nearly sitting in the other’s lap. 

Garfield, pounding more lube into his fist, encircled both their cocks with one hand; Drury’s mandibles scissored without his say-so, and he shuddered. Oh,  _ God,  _ feeling Garfield’s rough fingers and his hot, hard dick on  _ Drury’s  _ dick- at the  _ same time- _ was… a  _ lot. _

“Stick with me,” Garfield said, slightly out of breath. “Like, put your hand on the other side—” Drury did as bidden, a little shakier than he’d like to admit. “— and then we can sort’a jerk both of us off at the same time— and, and, we can thrust, too— And that should feel awesome, right?” 

“Right,” Drury nodded, breathlessly. 

Finding a proper rhythm- so they could both pump up and down mostly in time- was sort of difficult at first. But once they  _ found  _ that rhythm— oh  _ man.  _

Drury, abandoning all pretense of shame, began rutting up against Garfield; Garfield did exactly the same thing, and any trace of sophistication went out the window as they began veritably pumping and humping the other. 

Could you  _ blame  _ Drury, though? He had a hot (no pun intended) guy in front of him, and there was enough lubricant for it to be slippery, but still sort of  _ rough  _ because of Garfield’s textured skin _ ,  _ and Garfield kept making these nice little whining sounds whenever the tip of his cock dragged against Drury’s shaft— 

“Bro,” Drury groaned. “Bro, br—”, and that was all the warning Garfield got. 

Drury rode out his orgasm, momentarily caught in throes of ecstasy that made his entire  _ body _ curl, from his toes to the tip of his antennae. 

Garfield needed a little bit more, though, still grinding and jerking against Drury until he found his own completion. Once brought down from his post-orgasm bliss, Drury made a mewl of overstimulated complaint as Garfield kept pounding and pumping at Drury’s softening cock—  _ oh god his poor dick wasn’t ready for more he just came—  _

Before Drury could bear it no longer, Garfield gave a pleased yowl and stiffened, arching up; Drury didn’t even care that Garfield’s cum got all over Drury’s fur, pleased was he to be free of the delicious pleasure-pain. 

They sat there for a bit, panting heavily, sweating. Garfield grabbed the handful of tissues Drury had brought out, and made a half-assed attempt at cleaning up. 

“Think I should shower,” Drury wheezed. He was tired and really wanted to just lie down, but there was semen in his fur and if it  _ dried  _ it would be such a  _ pain in the ass to get out.  _

“Yeah, okay,” Garfield flopped back onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling in exhausted, half-lidded bliss. “We should do that again sometime, bro. I haven’t nutted that hard in, like,  _ forever.”  _

“Yeah, dude. That was  _ awesome.”  _ Drury rose, wobbling towards the bathroom, and thought to himself that it was kinda funny that they’d had sex before they’d first kissed. 

Oh, well… Today was a day for firsts. 

Who  _ knew  _ what’d happen later?


	3. Ratcatcher/Batman - Fantasy Handjobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratcatcher gets off to a fantasy version of Batman.
> 
> (Set in the Strange Bedfellows universe... may or may not be canon.)

Otis Flannegan had not been alone in quite some time— since… 

_ Forever,  _ really. 

He always had rats around, in some form or another—When he slept, it was in a big, warm pile of sleek bodies, and there was nowhere he could go without feeling the curious mind of a rodent within his reach. 

But now, he sent them  _ out.  _

It was a human thing to send them away— to feel shame,  _ humiliation _ , to feel judgement from an animal that had no concept of his mortification. 

Otis shifted on the mattress, shivering despite himself. He fisted the sheets, balling them in his gloves; he was in the full attire of the Ratcatcher, mask and all. 

_ Batman’s big, strong hands have Otis’s shoulders in their grasp— he pushes Otis, hard, up against Bruce Wayne’s desk, nearly bending him over it backwards. _

_ Batman’s jaw is hard and stern and freshly shaven; his lips are pale and slim. There’s strong creases— frown lines, likely, Otis can’t imagine him smiling that much.  _

_ “You threatened Mr. Wayne,” Batman says. “I expected better from you.” _

_ “I had to see you,” Otis tries to explain, weakly. “It was the only way I could get your attenti—” _

_ Batman, without warning, flips Otis onto his stomach— his forearm batters against Otis’s upper back, pinning him down. Otis’s heart begins racing, pounding like a drumbeat in his ears. He feels sick, exhilarated, horrible, wonderful— his traitorous body pulses and thrums with excitement. Batman is manhandling him. Batman!  _

Otis could feel the bruise on his lower back from the encounter the previous afternoon— it cut across his back, dull and flat. He touched it, just to feel it hurt— to lend  _ realism.  _

_ “Why do you want my attention?” _

_ “You were nice to me,” Otis wants to explain. “The only one other than the rats who’s ever been willing to do anything nice for me without needing anything else in return. I wanted to see you again because you make me feel special and cared for, and you’re dangerous, exciting, but also you can be soft and gentle—” _

_ But he would not say that to Batman, and he doesn’t, even in a fantasy. He pants, cheek pressed against the cold wood, and watches his breath make a wet mark on the mahogany.  _

_ The pressure on his back increases. Otis makes a sound of pain. _

_ “Why, Flannegan?” Batman repeats, harshly.  _

_ “You left me alone,” Otis responds, petulant. “You can’t just leave people, Dark Knight, not without consequences.” _

_ It’s all he can do, to throw his pain in Batman’s face; to pretend it doesn’t belong to Otis.  _

_ “You should have been patient, Flannegan,” Batman growls, jaw scarcely grazing Otis’s ear. Otis does his best to not shiver. “This is unforgivable.” _

_ Otis changes tack. “I— I am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset— I just wanted to talk to you again.”  _

He mouthed the words, scarcely whispering them. The rats didn’t understand what he was saying, but he couldn’t bear the thought of them hearing any of this. 

_ “Is that  _ **_all_ ** _ you wanted, Otis?” Batman asks, a cold flame of judgement slicing through Otis’s weak, flimsy exterior. _

_ “No,” he chokes, weakly.  _

_ “Why don’t you tell me what you want, Otis?” Batman’s growl broadens into almost a purr. Otis begins shaking. His mind is throbbing, set alight by the grating timbre. The tone had changed— from anger and wrath to something more… sweet and coaxing.  _

“Please,” Otis mewled, and finally, he couldn’t take it anymore; he tugged at the front of his pants. 

_ Batman has it all figured out. _

_ Otis’s back burns with icy shame, but he knows,  _ **_knows,_ ** _ that if he’s to be vulnerable in front of anyone, it is Batman who he can fall back on. Batman will not mock or ridicule him- Batman may  _ **_hurt_ ** _ him, but Otis will be spared the lash of his tongue.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” Otis whines. Batman knows by now that the Ratcatcher’s erection is pushing against the desk. Knows that Otis wants, more than anything, this kind of intimacy— knows that it’s not fair Batman gives it to Catwoman-  _ **_CATWOMAN!-_ ** _ and not Otis. “Batman—” _

_ There was a moment of pause, where Otis hadn’t a clue if Batman would throw him to the floor and put him in cuffs, or begin to gently stroke, or to tell Otis that he was not well for wanting this from a veritable stranger— not well for putting lives in danger for a cheap lay— _

Otis was sweating. The Ratcatcher gear was heavy, insulating. He would suffocate alive in it and  _ like  _ it. 

He whuffed in a breath, trying to clear the light-headed dizziness; he reached for the nightstand. He didn’t masturbate a lot. He’d had to  _ buy  _ lubricant just for this fantasy- it was not something he kept on-hand. 

He left his gloves on. Batman wouldn’t take his gauntlets off, surely.

_ “Otis,” Batman says, and the name is so sweet from his mouth, enough to make the Ratcatcher swoon. “Just this once.” _

_ And yes, oh, yes, just this once. Otis would’ve done horrible things for it to be  _ **_just this once._ **

_ “Thank you,” Otis closes his eyes tightly, screwed shut with mortification and lust. Batman’s rubbing him, gently, through the rough material of Otis’s trousers. “Thank you, Batman.” _

_ “You have to make some promises,” Batman continues. The touch is a tease, now, promising to be more, if only Otis agrees. And Otis will agree. He’d agree to anything. He  _ **_wanted_ ** _ to agree to anything.  _

_ Otis grinds up to meet him. Batman doesn’t stop.  _

_ “You can’t tell anyone about the connection between me and Wayne,” Batman says. His breath is hot in Otis’s ear, the growl scraping against his spine, tingly, like a knife through bread crust. “You’ll put me and Mr. Wayne in danger.” _

_ “I won’t tell,” Otis promises, breathily. “I wouldn’t.” _

_ “I don’t believe you,” Batman gropes him harder, and Otis whines, bucking up into it.  _

_ “I won’t, I won’t,” Otis whimpers, loudly. “I won’t, I won’t.”  _

_ Batman is starting to rock against him. Otis can’t feel if he’s aroused under the armor- the codpiece is hard, solid- but the gentle, back-and-forth contact is making it hard to think properly.  _

_ Batman delves his hand into Otis’s pants, pulling out his cock; he flips Otis again, has him sit up on the desk, freeing him from the pin. Gentle touches direct Otis’s legs to open wide, push his chest back. Otis doesn’t care  _ **_what_ ** _ position he’s in, so long as he keeps feeling Batman’s strong hands, the barely contained power in his muscles— gets to see that alluring, sharp jawline, the smell of steel, blood, sweat, and gunpowder—  _

_ “Anything you hear has to come to me,” Batman says, sharply. He punctuates it with the gentle tug at Otis’s cock, and Otis hisses into his fist. “I want you to be useful, Flannegan.” _

“I can be useful,” Otis said to the empty air, pumping his cock with barely-restrained desperation. His breath was already labored from the respirator, despite how short it’d been since he started touching himself. 

He could pass out. 

He didn’t care. 

“I can,” Otis whined. “I’ll get you any information you want. Rats…  _ hhh, hh,  _ rats can go anywhere. A-Arkham— they can go to  _ Arkham,  _ spy on the inmates—”

_ “That’s a good start,” Batman tells him. He rewards Flannegan by running his thumb over the tip of the Ratcatcher’s cock, pleasurably fast. Otis moans, trying to not sway— he’s fallen back on his hands, using his trembling biceps to keep himself upright. “A very good start.” _

_ Otis tries to say,  _ yes, I’m good,  _ but another moan chokes its way out of his throat.  _

_ Batman’s other hand, which’d been clamped down on Otis’s hip, migrates to between his thighs. They’re coated with lubricant, slicked and ready. Otis swallows a groan. He’s so hot. Sweltering, burning, in his costume. He can’t breathe. The sweat on his inner thighs almost matches Batman’s gelled fingers.  _

_ His fingertips skirt the rim of Otis’s hole, measured and precise.  _

Otis whined into the open air, working his first finger in. The gloves were going to need a serious cleaning after this was over, and they were  _ leather, _ too—

But for  _ now _ , he’s in his fantasy— where it’s carbon-plated gauntlets.

_ “Why did you agree to this?” Otis asks, breathlessly. The respirator exasperates the scratchiness of his voice. _

_ When there is no answer, he throws his head back, entreating the ceiling. “Batman,  _ **_please—”_ **

**_“You_ ** _ wanted this,” Batman reminds him. “I’m  _ **_helping_ ** _ you.” _

_ The Dark Knight’s tone implies that he could stop at any time, and Otis balks at the very idea. He’ll be quiet now. _

_ Well, not quiet. He whines, moans, hisses oaths and swears. Batman works up to the first knuckle, and adds another finger. It’s uncomfortable, sort of- crammed- but Otis knows Batman’s seeking out that little bundle of nerves that’ll make it feel good. _

Otis suppressed a strong sense of frustration. He’s never fingered himself before, and he’s not sure where, exactly, the prostate is- how far in, how hard he has to touch-

Otis yelped. That was it. That was definitely it.

_ Batman remains stoic as Otis starts melting in his hands— Otis  _ **_can’t_ ** _ see him sweet and gentle, not with a man and not with Otis, and he feels a stab of envy for Catwoman. Batman would sweetly ask her “are you okay?” if she squirmed and gasped— his preference had been made clear by way of rumor and stolen kisses— _

_ Otis’s stomach starts souring. He’s burning up, hemorrhaging sweat like blood, and his head hurts with every pulse of his heartbeat in his temples. He might be crying— he might be sweating. The salt stings his eyes and he can’t breathe. _

Otis jerked his hand off his cock, ferociously scrambling at the buckles of his gas mask. He gasped, trying desperately to breathe, but he couldn’t. The lubricant on his glove slicked the clasps, and that, combined with the clumsy thickness of them, meant he  _ couldn’t get it off.  _

The rats squeezed in from under the door. The rats, the rats. They were his  _ salvation.  _

Their clever paws undid the buckles. They carried the mask away. Otis dry-heaved, trying to snatch any bit of air he could get into his greedy body. His solar plexus _hurt,_ the small of his back _hurt,_ his **_heart_** hurt, because the whole damn fantasy was a sham. 

Otis threw off the gloves, and they landed with a wet flop in the corner. He unbuckled the clasps on his coat and slid out of it without getting up, shaking and sweating. 

Dry cleaner’s. It’ll need to go to the dry cleaner’s.

_ What the hell were you thinking?  _

Otis threw himself out of bed, with an animal lunge at the gloves on the floor. He picked them up, opened the door, strode through his apartment. Cleaning leather... you want to use minimal amounts of water or liquid— 

He felt faint. The rats piled up on the counter when he stumbled into the kitchen; Scar knew how to turn on the tap, and did, without being asked. Otis got a glass of water, and drank the whole thing down. 

He sat down at the table and wiped away the mess he’d made of his gloves, cursing himself for even going  _ through  _ with a stupid fantasy like that. It wasn’t realistic. Batman would  _ never  _ do that, and he was a  _ fool  _ for thinking he could have anything even remotely resembling what Catwoman had—

He was shaking, now, with sobs instead of strain. He was crying and wiping at the damn gloves and he could  _ feel  _ that his poor babies were upset and scared.

He left the gloves on the table once they were clean enough. 

He was calmer now that he’d had a moment, but the lump was still in his throat and he was still soaked through with sweat.

He had a shower. A very long, very cold shower. 

He watched his already flagging erection wilt into softness, watched the soap and water swirl down the drain. He had a very miserable, lonely cry, muted sobs confined to the tiny cubicle and muffled by the curtain and the pounding of the water. 

When he stepped out, he dried off and went back to bed. Sheets would need to be washed tomorrow— couldn’t do it tonight.

He had cooled off, now. He could breathe. He was okay. It was okay.

The rats crept in, warm, furry bodies surrounding him,  _ comforting  _ him. He did not have Batman, but he had the rats. 

His hand slipped down to fondle his soft cock again- he knew he shouldn’t,  _ knew  _ it would only end badly- but he felt  _ ugly,  _ blue-balled, incomplete. 

_ Batman stands over him in the dark. The bedsprings hardly whisper as he dips down to press his knee on the edge. _

_ When his fingers touch, they are bare and gentle, calloused from years of arduous labor. They are strong and sturdy— fine hands, perfect hands. Warm hands. _

_ They are hands that do not belong to Otis. They are hands that he can not have.  _

Otis bit down on the inside of his cheek as he came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments extremely appreciated!


	4. Gentleman Ghost/Riddler - SFW Indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gentleman Ghost feels terrible for liking it so much. 
> 
> Short and SFW.

It was three AM. 

Even with all of James’s years, the time had never lost its feeling of secrecy; the childish thrill of being the only one awake while the entire world slept. 

The house was quiet and still. The whirring computers with the spinning, bladed maws that moved so fast they hummed (fans, Edward had explained with unending patience), the bee-like buzz of the light fixtures (electrical currents, Edward told him), and the icy breath of the air conditioning (air moving through the vents, Edward had happily elaborated) had all been silenced, as was the tradition before Edward retired to bed. 

James, too, was supposed to be bedded down now; when the master of the house went to sleep, it was James’s task to curl up on the couch with a book and await Edward’s arising the next morning, or else engage in his own ghostly parody of a human’s rest.

( Ghost sleep was very different from human sleep; it involved turning into a puddle of ectoplasmic goo, and a blessed respite from the concentration it took to maintain a physical body. Edward had yet to see him in such a state, and James intended to keep it that way. )

At any rate, James was fully awake and the book he had been struggling through was left on the coffee table. The guttering candle he’d been reading by had been blown out.

It was dark and silent in the house, and James stood up from the couch, passing through the coffee table and drifting through the walls until he reached Edward’s room.

It was dark in here, too. James quietly summoned his cane from the aether; the iron handle, fastened into the shape of a skull, emitted a dim, plum-colored glow from its eye sockets and the gape of its jaw.

James left it suspended in the air, and approached Edward’s slumbering form.

His stomach turned in delight and anticipation; what he was about to do was something he would not allow himself to indulge in frequently. Anything that was this…  _ pleasurable... _ was dangerous, no matter how innocuous on the surface. 

Careful to not make a sound, James stood before Edward and watched him breathe. The motion of his ribs- up and down- was hypnotic.  _ Alluring.  _ People didn’t appreciate just how much of the body was involved in breath; the shoulders rolled with the motion, the stomach stirred along with the chest, and the gentle flare of the nostrils—

James mentally shook himself by the scruff of the neck. If he spoke to a person the same way his thoughts swirled in his mind, they’d call him a  _ madman. _

That didn’t completely stop him, though. He reached out for the softness of Edward’s throat; the hard knob of his Adam’s apple was brushed on the way to his jugular.

Craddock applied the slightest pressure with his forefinger and middle. It took a moment of shifting, but he found Edward’s pulse.

The tiny, resistant thrum made him shiver. 

It was  _ life;  _ fragile, chaotic, horrible  _ life,  _ beating defiantly under his fingers. 

James was abruptly swept up in a horrific lunacy; he genuinely believed he would do  _ anything  _ for Edward, that he was madly, deeply in  **love** .

His cane fell, clattering to the floor. James started, realizing that he’d forgotten about suspending it; he drew back from the bed, hurriedly, as Edward stirred. 

James was back to the couch, book in hand, before Riddler could even get out of bed.

( His fingers still sweetly tingled with the rhythm of his pulse. )


	5. Scarecrow/Mad Hatter- Voyeurism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scarecrow watches Tetch; simple as that. Set in the Strange Bedfellows universe.

Scarecrow awoke in the middle of the night. 

Its sleep was miserable and disturbed, plagued by nightmares that it didn’t much like to recall. 

It sat up, sweat beginning to sheen its skin, and pulled at the edge of its mask to circulate a little bit of air around its neck. The sharp ferociousness of the dreams were beginning to cool, but the unnerving aftertaste lingered. 

It rose from its blanket nest, thinking about perusing one of its well-loved nursery rhyme books by candlelight; that was how it had calmed itself from nightmares ever since it could read. Its fingers skimmed over the piles of precious things in the hoard, trying to find the best one for it. 

It felt the hard edges of its Mother Goose compendium, and pulled it from the hoard with businesslike efficiency. The integrity of the hoard weakened with the loss, but remained in tact, and Scarecrow flung itself back to the blankets. It did not need light in order to know every word, every hatched line on every illustration, and in what order; it turned open the book in the dark and recited the stanzas in its mind, running its fingers along the thick, cool pages. 

A noise alerted it, and it closed the book in the dark, nestling further beneath its covers. Footsteps came up the metal catwalk; the gait was undoubtedly Tetch’s, slow and shuffling, feet with socks on them but no shoes. 

Tetch had been very adamant about tea-drinking at dinner that night. It had been laced with some of the last of their opium, and while Scarecrow would ordinarily jump on the opportunity to get a good night of rest, it did not trust Tetch that night. Normally he would be smooth and inconspicuous about drugging Scarecrow, but he had been fidgeting and offering  _ more tea, dear?  _ over and over again. 

Scarecrow loved Tetch, but its suspicion overrode trust in that instance. So it did not drink, and instead, suffered through its poor sleep. 

Tetch’s footsteps came to the open doorway, then stopped. Scarecrow, who had pretended to be asleep  _ hundreds  _ of times before when it was young, gave no indication it was awake.

“Dearest?” Tetch whispered. Louder, he said, “Crane?” 

That would not have awoken it from the depths of an opiate slumber. Crane did not move. 

“Hickory dickory dock,” Tetch sang. “The mouse ran up the clock.” 

This was bait. Scarecrow jammed its tongue into its cheek and bit down to ensure its silence. 

After a moment, Tetch continued. “The clock struck one, and down he run, hickory…” 

_ Dickory,  _ Crane thought.  _ Dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock. Hickory di—  _

“Dickory,” Tetch let that hang even longer. “Dock.” 

He stayed by the doorway for a moment, then retreated back down the catwalk. 

Scarecrow went through an internal rendition of  _ Twinkle Twinkle Little Star  _ thrice,  _ Little Boy Blue  _ twice, and one final  _ Who Killed Cock Robin _ before it dared to tense up and move. 

It could not return to sleep now. It crawled out from under the blankets, reaching for the thick, wooly socks it knew hid in the hoard. It thrust them on and left its room, descending the catwalk and being  _ very  _ careful to make as little noise as possible. 

The tea-table was empty, as were both Scarecrow and Jervis’s work surfaces. 

Jervis  _ did  _ have his own room, of a kind, but he spent so much of his time at the tea-table or his workspace that Scarecrow was unused to seeing him there. It supposed he either must be there, or else gone for the night. 

It did not like the idea of him being  _ gone.  _ It did not like the secrecy that was happening. It would check his room. If he was not there— 

…

— then Scarecrow would demand answers when he returned. 

It tried not to think about what would happen if he did not return, and instead, prowled through the massive stores of rotting shipping crates. Jervis’s room was an old breakroom on the lower floor, and didn’t have much of anything in it other than an old mattress, some bedding material, and his clothing. He didn’t have a hoard like Scarecrow— all of his valuable possessions were kept on his person or at the tea-table.

Faint noises grew louder the closer Scarecrow got to Tetch’s room. He was definitely  _ there,  _ which was a slight weight off of Scarecrow’s mind— but it still wanted to know what exactly he was doing. 

It crept closer, flattening itself against a crate and peering in. All the doors of the warehouse had been removed- and all the glass had been broken- quite some time ago. Their absence had never meant anything before, but now, it allowed Scarecrow a glimpse inside his room. 

The sight it witnessed, peering in, was curious. Tetch was on his mattress, partially sitting up, halfway turned from the door. He appeared naked, at least from the waist up. Crane couldn’t help but stare at the smooth, rosy skin of his back (made silver-blue in the dim light) and idly want to  _ touch.  _

It was too dark to ascertain much more detail than that; but it wasn’t sight that was capturing Scarecrow’s interest; rather,  _ sound.  _

Jervis was making soft little sounds that Scarecrow liked a  _ lot.  _ Whimperish groans, deep exhalations, sharp breaths in; close, but not quite like the vocalizations made when someone was exposed to fear toxin. Warmth tingled in Scarecrow’s stomach, spreading rapidly, and it inched forward to hear better. 

It knew what was happening, of course. Scarecrow was not  _ stupid,  _ blind, or naive; those sweet sounds were the product of self-pleasuring, not fear (the rapid, wet slap-schlick of a hand sliding on wet skin was a good indicator) but it liked the way Jervis made them, just the same. 

It hunched down beside the doorway, carefully positioning itself to peer into the gloom. This close, if it strained, it could just see the slightest motion of Jervis’s hand in the dark; the glistening of slick when it caught the light. 

It thought about popping out and scaring him in this intimate moment, while he was vulnerable and distracted. The squeal would be  _ lovely.  _

But it was certain he would be  _ angry  _ at it for that, so it rocked back- pulling itself out of view- and closed its eyes. It  _ listened,  _ for the sweet croon of Jervis’s voice, pitching to and fro; the labored breath and deep, long whines; and it shivered in bliss while hearing his final, desperate moan, muffled by a hand or fabric. 

Jervis’s panting slowed; fabric gently rustled. It was a few minutes, maybe less, maybe more, until silence dominated the room. He was done. Heading to sleep.

Scarecrow crept back through the aisles of crates, ascended the catwalk, and curled up back among its hoard. While it tried to force itself back to sleep, Jervis’s sounds replayed in its mind like a haunting melody, sweet but nevertheless distracting. 

It ground, frustratedly, against the covers, but that did nothing to alleviate the throbbing ache; it thought of, like Tetch, touching itself to completion, but balked at the idea of doing that itself.

Not that it had any reservations against sexual gratification. Its miserable home life had drilled into it that masturbation and sex out of wedlock were sins, but those were so pedestrian and forgettable that it often mis-remembered the taboo… 

No, the worry was the fact that it  _ did not know  _ what it was  _ doing.  _ Humping blankets fruitlessly could only bring oneself so far. 

Needless to say, it did not get that much sleep that night. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been holding on to this for a while- as it was my intention to write this with a nsfw scene taking place the next day- but it's been so long I've decided against it, and felt no reason to deny this fic to the world any longer.


	6. Ratcatcher/Batman - Penetrative Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otis and Batman... get together.

“Oh—  _ Oh!”  _

Batman had him grasped- gentle, but with implicit strength- by the scruff of his leather coat. The oxygen tank had been unbuckled from his back some time ago for convenience’s sake, rolled into some obscure corner of the floor. 

The mask was off- Otis had learned his lesson some time ago- although he was face-down.

Batman’s hands- ungloved, lightly calloused- interrupted Otis’s thoughts. They’d moved from his neck to the back of his thighs, running over them in silent assessment. Otis instinctively held his breath, trembling like a leaf. 

Silently, Batman leaned up, pressing his body against Otis’s; the proximity, even through all of the Knight’s armor,  _ burned,  _ setting a flame alight in the Ratcatcher’s mind and in his groin. He daren’t make a sound, though, in case the spell was broken. 

He bit his lip as his cock swelled—

Batman unbuckled the Ratcatcher’s belt, making a pass over Otis’s clothed arousal on his way, and Otis made an undignified whine that he had to bite back. With the belt no longer stopping him, Batman slowly pulled the edges of his trousers down, briefly stroking Otis’s bared skin.

“You’ll need to relax,” Batman told him, in that soft but deep voice of his. “You’re too tightly wound. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I’m fine,” Otis said, slightly muffled due to the lip-biting. “Please. You can do anything you like. I won’t complain.” 

He didn’t want to be hit, though. He was as far away as masochist as you could get. But he couldn’t tell Batman that— how could a person deny Batman  _ anything?  _ He was getting this—  _ this!—  _ which was more than he had ever dared to dream of. He would be choked or slapped or bit or  _ anything  _ Batman wanted. For a moment of lunacy, he thought he’d even  _ die  _ at Batman’s behest. 

A wet finger prodded at him, and Flannegan groaned in uncertain anticipation. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole penetration thing yet— Batman was supposed to change his mind. 

“Relax,” Batman repeated. “Loosen your muscles. I’ll take care of you.” 

Otis tried his best. 

The slicked finger pushed in; it was new, it was alien, it was a foreign sensation that Otis intuited will take getting used to. He dug his eyeteeth into his lower lip harder, to muffle himself if he made any noises Batman might find objectionable.

Batman stopping would be  _ so much worse  _ than temporary discomfort—

And then it wasn’t discomfort anymore. 

“Ah,” Otis stiffened. “ _ Ah!”  _

Little shocks of pleasure sparked up his spine, and the odd feeling of Batman working at him from the inside suddenly felt  _ not so odd.  _

“There,” Batman murmured to himself. He lovingly worked that nerve, up until Otis’s right thigh started to shake so hard it seemed like it would give out, and Otis realized he could all too easily get off just from this. 

“Batman,” Otis warned him, breathlessly. Batman, with no incredible hurry or delay, ceased. Otis was given a chance to breathe, which he gratefully took while Batman started slicking up more fingers.

Batman pushed in the first again, then a second, but his target was not Otis’s gland; his intention now was to spread and scissor, to prepare Otis for…

_ —Even just thinking about it— about getting fucked by Batman— has him completely dizzy. Dumbstruck. Batman! Batman is going to be inside him! Not inside Catwoman, not inside Talia al Ghul; inside stupid, insignificant, useless, powerless Otis Flannegan! The Ratcatcher—!  _

After Otis could accommodate three fingers with marginal difficulty, Batman pulled them away.

“You want this?” The Dark Knight asked, quietly. It wasn’t in the kind of husky, seductive way that statement was usually said; it was a genuine query. 

“Yes,” Otis said, voice cracking. His earlier moaning had caused it to crisp up a little. 

Batman gave a soft vocalization of affirmation, and the tip of his cock pressed briefly outside Otis’s hole to make itself known; the anticipation made Otis’s stomach clench, and he thought for a moment that he’d be sick. The delirious joy that he felt whenever the rats gave birth, or when a rat pup ate solid food for the first time, expanded in his chest, twentyfold. 

When Batman pushed in Otis genuinely thought he would weep, and his poise fractured. He had tried his best to muffle his sounds, to remain still and perfect lest he ruined Batman’s night, but it was hard to care,  _ so hard—  _

_ Batman is inside me,  _ he thought, with a sense of giddy unreality. His brain skipped over several dots, to territory that he’d never dared articulate, even in his head, due to the sheer madness of it:  _ Batman loves me.  _

_ “Ah!”  _

Being full— having their bodies flush— was  _ indescribable.  _ The heat, the presence— actually  _ feeling Batman—  _ oh, it was like  _ nothing else  _ Otis had  _ ever  _ had before.

Batman started slow; rocking his hips gently, a rhythm almost torturous with all the anticipation. Otis uncontrollably shuddered around him, just trying to keep himself from buckling. His thighs were trembling from strain. 

“It’s alright,” Batman said, softly. One hand had ended up on Otis’s hip, for leverage, and the other gently caressed the nape of Otis’s neck. 

“Y,  _ ahh,  _ yes, yes,” Otis gasped back at him. The pace had increased-  _ was  _ increasing- and Batman was now solidly pushing in and out, in a rhythm that made it hard to think about anything other than his own release— 

Batman’s hand moved from the back of Otis’s neck to his cock, gently stroking the underside of his shaft. Otis thought he’d cum then and there for a moment, but he held on, panting mightily for air. His moans came with increasing frequency now, even though Batman had hardly even cracked his composure to let out a sigh or grunt of effort. 

No good thing lasted forever. Batman’s thumb started abusing Otis’s glans, and the Knight canted his hips back-and-forth, slamming in and out with- in hindsight-  _ embarrassing  _ squelches and the repetitive slap of skin-on-Kevlar-weave. Otis’s muscles tightened, and the impending orgasm came on with the force of a speeding truck. 

There was a solid second of blackness, where he swam in the infinite bliss of the orgasmed; then he fell back down to earth. 

Tears pricked Otis’s eyes as he heaved for air. Coming down from the high had all these emotions- all these chemicals- clashing together in absolute disharmony. Love and lust and guilt and pleasure and shame all ran together in a lukewarm stream that congealed in his stomach and dripped out ice-cold. 

A tear that’d been threatening to spill rolled down Otis’s cheek, and Otis, who’d been motionless after he came, slowly shifted to sit upright. The motion made him dizzy, chest heavy and lungs caught with mucus. 

“Oh, jeez,” Batman said. “I didn’t mean…” 

Otis glanced up at him,  _ knowing  _ what he must’ve looked like; he scrubbed his cheek with the back of his palm, about the only thing he could do to try to fix it. 

Batman- tall, imposing, stoic- stood before him, and in a moment, he was no longer there. The new arrival was still tall, but broader than any human man; skin cracked and doughy, eyes pupil-less but still concerned, his wide maw full of ill-spaced teeth. 

“I didn’t hurt you or nothin’, did I?” Basil Karlo, Clayface, asked him. 

“No,” Flannegan said, rapidly dropping from the intense, blissful cage of his fantasy into cold, hard reality. It was a Herculean task to keep from crying. “You didn’t. You did really, really well.”

His voice was watery and weak. Hearing it only made him want to cry more. 

“I’ve had lots of practice,” Clayface shapeshifted himself a chair out of his own flesh, moving to be more level with the Ratcatcher. “You definitely ain’t the first person who gets his rocks off to being screwed by Batman.” 

It was intended to comfort, but made him feel worse, if anything. It felt as though it made his chances with the  _ real  _ one slimmer. 

“Thank you, Basil.” Otis thumbed the rim of his lower eyelid, wiping away blurry tears. 

“You already paid in full,” Clayface carried on, “but if you like—”

His shape morphed into that of the Dark Knight, and Otis’s stomach stung with a sudden fiery lash of guilt. 

“—you can get aftercare for free,” Clayface-Batman said, in that soft but deep voice of his. Batman’s mouth lifted into a smile that made Otis’s heart pound double. “On the house.”

Otis’s little demons of doubt came rushing in all at once. Sex was one thing— but could he indulge in  _ that?  _ A fake Batman taking care of him? False words and false touch?  _ Pretend romance, pretend care, pretend intimacy? _

How had he even been been able to do  _ any  _ of this? Was he so desperate— so  _ sexually depraved and deprived?  _ Could he only realize how  _ bad  _ of an idea this had been  _ after  _ he’d done it?

“It’s fine,” Otis said, willing his tears to stay where they were at, “I’ll be okay. I… I’ll call on you again sometime.” He thought about saying  _ I’ll recommend you,  _ but who would he even recommend Clayface’s services  _ to?  _

It took a bit more convincing- reassurance that Otis was alright- before Clayface was really willing to leave, but he eventually obliged Otis and bade him farewell. 

And Otis went to bed, surrounded by the radiating heat of his rats, wondering how far he could sink into obsession before there was no coming back. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Been a while since I've written anything, and I love feedback!
> 
> (also, should I tag ratcatcher/clayface, or d'you think it would spoil the twist of this? any other tws or tags of note I've failed to include? let me know)


	7. Ratcatcher/Batman - Handjobs/Blowjobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugly discoveries abound.

Otis knows there’s a high probability he’s being watched, and he doesn’t care.

The need for covert secrecy had worn off a long time ago. He was begging,  _ pleading  _ to get caught. 

He wanted the attention it would bring. He wanted the accusations, the screaming, the yelling, the crying, the violence. Thoughts of how the confrontation would go consumed him, sitting comfortably in his stomach on nights when he was alone and wanting. Warm as whiskey, as reliable as a rat, and completely wrong.

Otis’s fantasies had gone from being loved to being lusted after, then culminated in being confronted for his sin. If this decline in thinking was any more of a red flag it’d start opening bread queues and gulags— but…

He just couldn’t stop himself.

Why, oh  _ why,  _ did Batman attract suitors like peanut butter drew mice? The cavalcade of beauties throwing themselves in front of him seemed to never cease: Talia al Ghul, Catwoman, Zatanna, Black Canary, Wonder Woman, Joker (now deceased, but who knew if that would last?), Batgirl, and rumors were flying about Riddler— 

Being in Batman’s employ was so  _ hard  _ some days. It was painful— learning how to properly wield his staff, to confer with the rats for Batman, to practice with various smoke-and-poison grenades, to hang on Batman’s every word and do his every bidding only to receive….

_ Nothing. _

While Batwoman stands beside him as his sole protector, and Zatanna blows him kisses, and Wonder Woman slaps him on the back, and Canary hugs him, and Talia smiles at him, and Catwoman—

_ The rats know what  _ **_they’ve_ ** _ done. And Otis knows everything the rats do. _

The proximity is painful. It hurts— though not while they’re together, but when Otis is  _ alone.  _ Aloneness gives him time to think, to obsess over every fleeting interaction. Every word is teased from his memory; the inflections, the tone, the fury or praise if there’s any to be found. Facial expressions are harder to recall; Batman is almost always scowling.

Touch is easiest. Innocuous gestures, like corrections in stance or adjustment of a shoulder or grip, have Otis feverish. 

This is madness. It’s obsession. There is no cure. 

At midnight on a cold February morning Flannegan jerks up from sleep. A dream surfaces, hazy; he was dreaming with the rats, mind melding with theirs’. Looming footsteps and massive hands blur his memory for a moment, until he blinks his way into reality. The LED screen of his alarm clock, and the curtains that have only been partially drawn, bleed light into the room. Dark enough to sleep, but light enough to see distinct shades of grey. 

There’s a man sleeping next to him. The form is familiar. Clayface hardly makes him pay for services anymore, and tacks on so many bonuses that Clayface might as well be paying Otis instead of the other way around.

It’s pity, Flannegan thinks. Clayface pities him. 

It’d only taken a few sessions until Flannegan had broken his code and allowed Clayface in for more than just sex; aftercare, showering together, sleeping in the same bed. It was over by morning, but for just one night, every humiliating, painstaking bit of Otis’s wants were met. 

Otis turns over, trying to alleviate himself of his thoughts by nosing against Clayface’s neck. The heat, the imperfections, the tiny hairs on the nape, state the obvious truth; Clayface is human— he is  _ Batman,  _ or, an indiscernible facsimile. 

A shameful gratitude prickles Flannegan’s skin, and he breathes a wet cloud against the man’s shoulder. He doesn’t stir; Karlo sleeps heavy. 

Flannegan is about to go back to sleep when a faint sensation stirs in the back of his mind; he drowsily opens his eyes. The rats are whispering among themselves; they’ve been disturbed by something. 

Otis murmurs a question, and the hushed whisker-twitches and ear-flicks and scent-markings get louder, more insistent. Rumors fly uneasily among the rats. There’s a new scent in the air, something strange- unfamiliar- and wrong. The temperature is dropping.

It’s an open window, he tells them, sleepily. Nothing scary. Don’t be afraid.

It’s then his muzzy brain thinks about it harder.  _ An open window? In my apartment? _

_ In February?  _

Suddenly, he is wide awake. He uncurls from Clayface, slowly pulling the blankets away. A shiver wracks Otis as cold air flows into the space occupied by the heat of two warm bodies, but he persists. The floor stings his bare feet and he fumbles against the wall for his staff. 

The rats are vocalizing, now, soft sounds that the human ear couldn’t perceive. Otis’s uneasiness is making them uneasy and vice versa, so the unease is feeding back on itself in a loop. 

The lantern on Otis’s staff glows a soft, somber yellow, the kind that looks very menacing when paired with clouds of smoke and an exterminator’s vestments. Otis throws his coat over his shoulders without buttoning it or bothering with pants, and inches toward the bedroom door. 

He positions himself carefully by the frame, his heart pounding in a frantic gallop, but his mind flooded with a sedated calm. No one is going to hurt his rats without punishment. No one is going to get through his apartment without consequence. No one’s getting to Clayface without pushing through  _ him _ first.

That’s the order of priority— the well-being of his rats, the sanctity of his home, and Clayface’s safety. He grips his staff tight in his bare palms, breathing slow and deep, as the door glides open.

Otis swings his staff full force and misses, his attacker dodging with a swift roll. The rats squeal in outrage. Blood roaring in his ears, Otis again lunges with his staff; his attacker, not missing a beat, evades. The rats rush in to assist, needle fangs and bright eyes glinting in the light, anxious to rend and devour. 

“Flannegan!” The sudden bark is sharp and chilling. The swarm of rats cringe back, falling over themselves in an attempt to stop, and Otis lowers his staff mid-swing. His knees suddenly feel like they’re about to give out. 

“Batman,” Flannegan breathes. The ‘attacker’ is his mentor; the savior of Gotham, the Dark Knight. “Why…? What on earth are you  _ doing  _ here?”

Batman announced his arrival before every visit, and every other time he’d dropped by, his scent was clear and readable. This time he’d taken steps to obscure it from the rats; to conceal himself from their gift. If it weren’t for the warm body asleep on Otis’s mattress, Flannegan might’ve wondered if this Batman was a particular rogue in disguise. 

“Your form could use a little work,” Batman says, tersely. He rises from his crouch. 

“Why are you here?” Otis asks again, slowly setting his staff against the wall. 

“We needed to speak,” Batman replies. Otis’s stomach twists, then knots in on itself. His throat clamps shut, and he nods, about the only movement he’s capable of at the moment. 

Batman would’ve noticed the body in Otis’s bed by now, if he hadn’t seen it as soon he entered. He had perceptions greater than a man— maybe perceptions greater than a rat. 

What Otis  _ did  _ doubt was that Batman knew it was a facsimile of himself— Neither Clayface nor Otis knew what lurked under the cowl, and they’d had to construct a fake face and body. Clayface had volunteered testimony from Catwoman for accuracy- he had greater social connections with the rogues than Flannegan- but had stopped when he’d seen the look on Otis’s face. 

“Let’s step outside,” Otis offers. “We don’t want you disturbing anyone.”

He motions his head towards the slumbering weight on the mattress. Batman nods in acknowledgement but makes no motion to move. 

“He’s the subject of our discussion,” Batman says to him, tone colored with disapproval. Otis’s knotted stomach squeezes tighter. 

“Then keep your voice down,” Otis bargains.

“If he didn’t wake up at the noise earlier, then he won’t wake up any time soon.” Batman is keeping his gaze squarely on Clayface; he hasn’t even looked over at the Ratcatcher. Indignation bristles through Otis, but he tamps it down. “Do you know who he is, Otis?”

“Does it matter?” 

“It does,” Batman says, gravely. “Did he give you a name?”

It’s hard to tell what Otis is even on trial for. Sleeping with someone without knowing them? Colluding with an enemy? Soliciting a prostitute? Pretending to have sex with his boss?

“It isn’t your business,” Otis is nothing if not stubborn. “The rats think he’s fine. That’s all the credentials he needs.”

Batman’s wary stare wavers, head inclining slightly towards the Ratcatcher. 

“What  _ do  _ your rats think of him, Flannegan?” Otis does  _ not _ like that tone of voice. “What can they tell us about him?” 

It’s a simple request Batman has given many times; mostly at investigations, chases, and crime scenes. Otis is so used to the order that he’s already halfway plunged into the minds of his rats before he can stop himself. It’s an unconscious reflex now— and that startles him. Frightens him, even. 

“They can smell he’s human,” Otis lies. “Male. In his forties.” 

Basil Karlo is confusing to the rats. He bears the scents of different ages, different genders, and different species. The only caveat is the ever-present whiff of soil and loam, with occasional bursts of chalk or hot sand, drifting on the aftercurrents of his smell. Clayface predominantly takes on the odor of the form he has assumed, but the rats’ noses are attuned for sussing sex and age and contradictory scents are not allowed to go unquestioned. 

“Why does this matter? Why are you  _ here?”  _ Otis persists.

“Because I can’t have valuable information being spread, Flannegan,” Batman’s eyes flicker beneath the cowl. His lips are thin and creased. With what emotion, Otis can’t quite tell. “I think you might be a security risk.”

“I am not,” Otis says back to him. “You know I’m not. Why would that kind of thing even come u—?”

“Because that’s not who you think it is,” Batman sounds almost regretful. “That’s Basil Karlo. Clayface.”

There’s a moment of pause.

“Yes, I know,” Otis says.

The pause lasts even longer this time. 

“You know?” Batman asks, incredulous. 

“Yes,” Otis’s reply is terse. “I asked him to be here.” 

A third silence stretches before them, until the Dark Knight decides to end it. 

“This can't continue, Flannegan. It shouldn’t have even happened to begin with.” Batman exhales, and the disappointment on his face sets alight a smolder in Otis’s chest. It’s the kind of look one gives to  _ children  _ when they do something naughty. It’s condescending. It’s patronizing. And Otis won’t take it lying down. “He’s  _ dangerous,  _ Flannegan. Karlo belongs in Arkham.”

“So does Catwoman,” Otis intones.

They meet one another’s eyes in a cold stalemate. Batman’s hypocrisy is well-known. He’s soft on her. Soft on women. 

( Otis feels a sudden surge of hatred towards Catwoman; then a bitter reminder calms his wrath. Cats may be good at killing rodents, but enough rats can tear  _ anything  _ to pieces, a meddling pussycat included. )

“That’s different,” Batman says.

“How?” Otis challenges.

“She’s an asset. Like you.”

_ Like me?  _ Otis wants to spit.  _ I notice  _ **_she’s_ ** _ the only one of us you kiss on moonlit rooftops. She’s the one you shack up with on unoccupied balconies. I don’t think she’s like me at all. _

The rats are chattering amongst themselves. The agitated squeaks boil the air in the room. 

“She’s just an asset to you?” Otis says. 

“No,” Batman answers, slowly. He seems to have caught on to the fact that this is not an easily navigable mentor-student disagreement; rather, a tense negotiation that could come to violence if necessary. “She’s not. You aren’t either, Flannegan.”

The words cool Otis’s temper. They soothe his nerves, balm his anxieties.  _ He is more than an asset. _

“What about Talia?” He rasps. “Canary? Zatanna? Wonder Woman?” 

“They’re all more than that,” Batman responds, carefully. “Otis. Move aside, please. I’m going to put Clayface back where he belongs.” 

Otis’s body is currently barring the way to the bed. And he doesn’t much want to move. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Otis says, softly . “My poor babies are due for supper. They’ll be hungry.”

Yes, Batman would be a good choice for the rats. Large, healthy. He would be tough with all the muscles, and the armor would be difficult to crack open, but he could feed them for a long time to come. They haven’t had flesh in so long, and the rats  _ do  _ like meat, even if it’s not as much as fruit. Otis can feel his whiskers twitching at the prospect, and doesn’t quite remember that he doesn’t have whiskers. 

“Otis!” Batman snarls, and it shakes him out of his trance. The Ratcatcher stumbles back, hand flying to his mouth. He had- for just the slightest moment- been fully prepared to murder his boss. 

_ There’s something wrong with you,  _ the thought is mousetrap-quick. He’s always known that, but now it is red and bright,  _ disturbing,  _ unignorable. 

He is a freak that talks to rats, and the rats talk back to him. 

“Y-yes,” Otis mumbles. He backs up a few more steps. 

Even as he obeys the order, he knows he can’t lose Clayface. The very prospect has the bottom dropping out of his stomach. Clayface is his crutch. His lifeline. Karlo is the only thing keeping him from packing up his rats and going off to live in a cave somewhere. 

He’ll either have to stop Batman now or spring Clayface from Arkham. The indecision has him momentarily paralyzed, unable to act.

Batman is preparing something from his belt, and Ratcatcher swallows, and says, “Please don’t do this.”

Batman pauses.

“What is he offering you?”

If Batman is expecting  _ sex  _ or  _ money  _ as answers, he doesn’t get it.

“Love,” Otis says, numbly. The word isn’t quite right, but it isn’t quite wrong, either. “Batman,  _ please.” _

“I’m sorry, Flannegan.” Otis can’t tell whether he’s sorry about the Ratcatcher’s choice of partner or that he must uphold the duty he’s sworn to perform. The Dark Knight continues flicking items out of his utility belt; preparing for Clayface’s capture. “You’re just going to have to make do with conjugal visits.” 

“But Catwoman gets away free?” Otis asks, with a scalding whisper. “Because she’s an asset?”

“She’s more than—”

_ “Karlo  _ is more than,” Otis hisses. 

“Catwoman is beginning to see the light.”

“So is Basil!” 

“Your relationship can hurt more than just yourself. Do you know how many people are on the line if you share sensitive information to the wrong person?” Batman’s voice patters like warm summer rain on skin; pleasant, tingling, and heralding lightning. 

“Don’t worry,” Otis whispers, soft and breathy. “I think I can do a bit better than Jason Todd.”

The blow is low, but the Ratcatcher is desperate to see some pain reflected on the Dark Knight’s face. When Batman does not reply to his jibe, nor physically react, Otis continues: “But if I’m ever too much of a risk, you can always kill me just like you killed Joker.” 

Otis wants violence. He is goading, now, waiting for Batman to retaliate. The Ratcatcher has struck his blow and twisted the handle. All that’s left is to get hit right back.

“You’re out of line,” Batman says, matter-of-factly, and turns back to Karlo. “We’ll talk about this when you’re thinking right, Flannegan.” 

“I am thinking right,” Otis hisses, desperately. He had been hoping— well, he didn’t know  _ what _ he’d been hoping for. A scuffle, something to vent Otis’s feelings, and- he grasps for this explanation- a din loud enough to wake Clayface so he could get away. “Please d—”

With no warning, a tide of clay flings itself off the bed; Otis yelps, Batman curses, and the world seesaws. In the dark, it’s hard to orient himself; Otis’s eyes dart, trying to find the glow of his clock, as his head swims. It feels like there’s a heavy weight pressing all around him,  _ crushing  _ him. 

Otis comes back to reality fast. He’s hanging upside down at first, but is slowly righted. Most of his body is encased in a layer of thickened clay; he’s pinned against a wall, toe-tips dangling a foot off the ground. He struggles, even though it’s fruitless. 

Clayface has taken on his giant, muddy, gape-mouthed form. One arm forms the pile of sludge pinning Ratcatcher; his other has morphed into a cone, a tapering shape that comes to a sharp-tipped point not unlike a lance. 

“Didja really think I sleep that heavy?” Karlo asks, with a rich chuckle. “You all think so little of Clayface. They put me in blockbusters for a  _ reason,  _ you know.” 

Batman takes a step forward, batarang the ready, and Clayface warningly jabs his lance arm at Otis. 

“Yeah, take another step, Batman,” Clayface crows. “If you want me to ventilate Ratcatcher with a few new holes, that is.” 

Batman grits his teeth and remains where he is. The batarang is lowered, but not completely put away. 

“Basil, what are you  _ doing?”  _ Otis demands. He can’t breathe as deeply as he wants to— the weight around his torso is crushing. 

(His hindbrain chatters in alarm, starting to clamor louder the longer he is stuck.)

“I’m takin’ you hostage, Otis, what’s it look like?” Clayface’s gap-toothed smile is ugly. “As much as I like ya, I hate Arkham even worse.”

The betrayal hurts even more than being crushed. 

“What’re your terms, Clayface?” Batman’s voice is cool. He must’ve been in negotiations like these hundreds of times over the years. 

“I want to walk out of here,  _ unharmed,”  _ Karlo says, “or else he gets skewered.” 

He pauses, a moment, then touches the tip of his lance to Otis’s jaw. Batman twitches forward, then stops short. 

“Tell him why I’m here, Otis,” Karlo nudges the point of his arm against the Ratcatcher’s cheek; not enough to break the skin, but enough to threaten. 

Otis’s heart is skittering in his chest like a trapped rat. Instinct has him wanting to cry for help— for his rats- his colony- and for Batman. He struggles mightily with nothing to show for it.

_ Basil isn’t serious,  _ Otis thinks, hysterically.  _ He’s an actor. This is all for show. He wouldn’t hurt me. _

At the same time, his thoughts turn the other direction. Clayface had seemed to pity him, but that could just as easily have been an act. Maybe Karlo is more ruthless than the Ratcatcher dared credit him f—

The pressure at his cheek gets more insistent. Otis whines, trying to angle his head back, but it’s flush against the wall and there’s nowhere left to go. Something wet- Otis has a good guess- trickles down his cheek.

“I asked you a question!” Clayface barks. 

“Karlo, lower your arm,” Batman orders. He sounds so strong. Authoritative. Ratcatcher would’ve listened to him.

“No! Flannegan, tell him why I’m here! What you  _ pay  _ me for.” When Clayface finishes speaking, Ratcatcher’s stomach clamps in on itself in dread; his mouth dries, his throat sticks. He couldn’t have spoken even if his life were in danger— which he supposes it is.

He wanted to get caught, maybe— but not quite like this. 

“I,” he stammers, and that’s about all he’s capable of. Weakly, he says, “Basil—  _ why?”  _

“I think Batman’s got the right to know,” Clayface growls, darkly. “You want to know, don’t you, Batman? You were worried about security breaches.”

“No!” Otis’s eyes flick between Batman and Clayface, and he wriggles against the solid clay embracing him. “You have to believe me, this isn’t about you, Batman—” Piteously, he cries, “I haven’t done anything wrong!” 

“He didn’t tell me any of your ugly secrets, Batman,” Clayface admits. “If he even knows ‘em. But he’s  _ not _ what you think he is.” 

“No, I—” Otis’s head is whirling. He can’t say it. He won’t say it. “I— I’m— I’m  _ human,  _ Batman, human…” 

_ That _ is the ugliness that stains his soul. Rats do not covet. Rats do not pine. Rats do not sleep with other rats and wish, bittersweetly, that it was someone else. 

“Tell him why I’m here, Otis, or I’ll poke your face a few new airholes,” Clayface roars. “I’m not joking around!” 

The grip of the clay tightens. The tempo in the air picks up; Batman is tensing, the rats are peering out of the shadows. The tip of Clayface’s lance punctures deeper into Ratcatcher’s cheek, and Otis lets out a piteous groan. He wants to weep. He is certain that Clayface would let him go, if only he confessed— but he can’t bring himself to do it. 

“Clayface! Put him down!” Batman barks, again. Why isn’t he doing anything substantial? Why is he just  _ standing there?  _

“This is on  _ his _ head, Batman! He confesses or I get to add ‘hole puncher’ to my resume!” 

His cheek hurts. Both in a lightning-hot burst, and the electrifying, steady throb of a fresh burn. Ratcatcher’s eyes blur with tears. His voice won’t come back to him. He can’t breathe; he thinks his ribs are going to bruise. 

“Just say it, Otis!” Clayface is screaming. Ratcatcher thinks that the pointed tip of the clay might push through his skin into his mouth, like a grotesque piercing. “Who was I, Flannegan?  _ Who were you having me turn into?” _

It punches through. His own blood is coppery in his mouth, and God, it hurts. 

With a whining sob, Ratcatcher confesses: “Hhuhnn—  _ Batman—” _

Clayface’s jaws part in a wide grin of triumph— which is quickly frozen on his face. Batman launches a barrage of capsules while Clayface’s attention is turned away. They explode on contact into cones of ice, trapping and freezing. Clayface lets out a mutated roar of rage before he’s frozen solid, and with one clean kick, Batman severs the arm holding Otis from Clayface’s body. 

Ratcatcher lands on his feet, and the broken-away clay proves much more malleable; he wrenches his arms free and scatters the remaining stuff off of him as quickly as possible. It flies towards its master, intent on aiding in the fight. 

Ratcatcher spits out a large glob of blood, nauseated by the taste. The wound is cheerfully oozing away, indiscriminately puddling in his mouth and running down his face. He tries to heave for air, but turns to more shallow breaths after his ribs flare painfully in protest.

Once he’s feeling a little less light-headed, Otis turns to see the unsurprising victor from the bout beside the frozen statue of Basil Karlo. 

“This is why we don’t get involved with villains,” Batman tells him. Otis nods, too weak to resist any of the Dark Knight’s proselytizing. “I told you so” is what that line amounts to, but any gloating is irrelevant. Otis is alive and mostly intact, which is what really matters. “You’ll need to get that looked at, Otis.” 

That’s about the only thing Otis can think of right now; the wound hurts quite a bit. He gives a weary nod. 

“Come with me,” the Dark Knight says. “The Batcave’s medical facilities will be able to take care of it.”

“The Batcave?” Otis asks, with a pained hiss. It hurts to talk, but the words were automatic in his surprise. Otis hasn’t been there. The Batcave is for Batman’s closest allies— his Robins, the female Bats, his friends from the Justice League. Otis… hasn’t been considered in that tier before. 

His surprise is conveyed well enough just from his facial expression and the two words alone. Batman nods, grimly.

“Nightwing is on his way. So are the police,” Batman says. “They’ll pick up Clayface and take him to Arkham.”

Ratcatcher’s spine goes stiff as his belly goes cold. He doesn’t want Clayface there.

_ He tried to kill you,  _ Ratcatcher reasons, but at the same time… You don’t sleep with someone so many times and not feel for them, at least a little— 

And he’s not entirely convinced Clayface wasn’t acting. Basil could’ve quietly escaped while Otis and Batman had been fighting. He could’ve attacked Batman instead of Otis. He could’ve made his demands without the insistence that Otis reveal his innermost secrets—

Clayface had been acting, alright.

But to what end?

The Ratcatcher later ponders this, lying alone in the Batcave’s medical wing, trying to listen for the scurrying of rats amidst the humming medical machines. 

There  _ are  _ rats in the Batcave, even though Otis thought there wouldn’t be. They are sweeter than your typical city rat; fur sleek and shiny, bodies small and plump. They have bright eyes and long, clean fingers; straight whiskers and smartly kept tails. They are not the average unkempt sewer rat; they are something else, something undomesticated but the furthest thing from feral. They have knowledge; the kind garnered from generations of scampering in the right shadows.

They whisper secrets to Otis while his cheek is being treated; the Dark Knight watches, ever the sentry, from the door. Their illicit murmurs come to him when the Medbay is dark, lit only by the glow of lifesaving machines, and he is teetering on sleep. Their hidden truths seep into his dreams; enriching, illuminating. 

_ Batman is gentle in this dream; they’re not in Otis’s apartment, as they typically are. They’re in the Batmobile, Otis sprawled on top of him, softly whining as Batman nibbles and kisses along his neck. Otis grips him tight. Can’t let him go. Won’t let him go.  _

_ “I need you,” Batman says, and it’s the loveliest thing, to be needed. Otis huffs against his chest in affirmation, and strokes the codpiece of the Dark Knight’s armor. There’s a complicated set of steps needed to peel him out of it, which Otis follows, to the letter. _

_ Batman’s member is no less impressive than the man himself. Anxious, proud, thick, flushed with blood and attention seeking. Being impressive is about where the resemblance to its owner stops.  _

_ It takes a little maneuvering to get the position right, but Otis lowers his head to the tip and begins sucking in earnest— Batman’s gauntleted fingers card in Otis’s hair, stroking with utmost affection. Otis hastens his work in reply.  _

_ “Good,” Batman says, thickly. Otis is privately pleased— happy to hear him winded. It means he’s doing something right. The petting is slowed, as Batman regains his composure. “Yes. That’s right, Otis…”  _

_ He takes it all, tip to root. He is happy here, just as he is happy by Batman’s side on their little excursions. The Dark Knight’s attention is always so divided— but just this once Otis can have it all for himself.  _

_ Catwoman and Wonder Woman and Zatanna are blurry concepts in this dream— meaningless names in a sea of countless others. Otis kisses the tip of Batman’s cock, and leaves a loving trail down his shaft.  _

_ Batman tugs at Otis’s hair, giving the slightest hiss of warning; Otis is quick to respond, mouth half-way sunk on Batman’s member when he comes. Otis swallows, obediently, and the taste is soft and faraway.  _

_ Batman reclines, deflating ever-so slightly after his orgasm. His hand hasn’t left its place among Otis’s locks, though it’d stopped petting after he’d spent himself.  _

_ “Here, Otis,” Batman murmurs. He lazily sits back up, loose in a way Otis hadn’t ever seen him before. He looks relaxed. He looks  _ **_happy._ **

_ Otis parts his knees, needing no instruction, and Batman’s hand carefully rubs the front of his pants; Otis’s lashes flutter in bliss. His cock is already hard, angrily straining in the confines of his trousers; it is a relief when Batman pulls him free, flushed scarlet and slightly wet with anticipation. _

_ The fondling is soft- slow- gentle. The polymer battle gauntlet has been replaced with human hands; soft in some spots, but calloused in others.  _

_ “I want to see you,” Otis says, arching into the touch. “Your face, Batman. Please. I’ve shown you mine.” _

_ Batman doesn’t stop; his only reply is a chuckle. Sad, pitying. _

_ “I’m worthy,” Otis insists, with a soft moan. “I want to know…”  _

_ “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Flannegan.” His hands feel so good. _

_ “I do… I do know…” _

_ “Alright,” Batman says, affectionately obliging. “You tell me first— What was Clayface talking about?” _

_ Clayface feels like a dream; like something Otis had overheard on the television. It takes him a while to remember, especially with the sweet, loving strokes to distract him.  _

_ “I asked him to be you,” Otis nods, then arches, whining in pleasure at an unexpected tease to his glans. He doesn’t remember why he had to ask Clayface to do that, when he had Batman here with him…  _

_ Why  _ **_did_ ** _ he do that…?  _

_ “He, ahhnn, did a good job… I think…”  _

_ Batman chuckles again. It’s a nice sound. He starts stroking harder, faster. His hands are slick and they slide so nicely, so wonderfully. Otis can’t keep it in for long— before he knows it, he’s riding out a groan and coming into the air. Batman strokes Otis as he softens, coaxing a few shivering whines from the slight overstimulation, but he knows when to stop.  _

_ “I love you,” Otis says, the kind of fond, sentimental nonsense that will get him in trouble one of these days. Batman nods in affirmation, a slight smile on his face, as if he already knows.  _

_ He reaches up for the cowl; his fingers press at the junction of head and neck, and there’s a little pneumatic hiss as the armor folds. He removes it like a helmet, offering it out to Otis, who takes it. _

_ “Mr. Wayne,” Otis says, with a nod. He supposed, faintly, that he had always known. Or, well, maybe not  _ **_known,_ ** _ but he wouldn’t have been surprised if it  turned out to be true. He’d already sniffed out the connections between Wayne and Batman— this is only a natural extension of it.  _

_ “Mr. Flannegan,” Batman- Mr. Wayne?- responds with a nod of his own. “This is privileged information, you know.”  _

_ “I know,” Otis’s reply is earnest. “No one can know. I won’t tell anyone. You know that.”  _

_ Mr. Wayne beckons him closer, and the dream blurs; Otis is  in his CEO’s office, and he has Mr. Wayne by the tie. As a civilian, Wayne plays hostage better than hero.  _

_ Otis’s fly is unzipped, and Wayne’s lips are wrapped around his cock. Otis has one hand braced against the desk, the other fisted in an otherwise perfect black coif. Wayne is talented with his tongue. Very talented. _

_ As the Ratcatcher finds his second orgasm, the dream swirls, and the rats fill it with knowledge verboten.  _

When Otis stirs, the pain in his cheek and chest alleviated by the gentle song of painkillers in his blood, the Medbay door glides silently closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe there'll be another part coming. Or maybe there won't. Who knooooows?
> 
> Also, wow, this chap was half as long as all the other chaps put together. Perhabs I got a little carried away....

**Author's Note:**

> You can make requests in the comments, but I can't swear to you I'll do them. 
> 
> Compliments/criticisms are always accepted !


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